I hate that he’s right. I hate I haven’t blocked him, that I keep responding, like I can’t help but feed into his game.
I stare at the door, legs shaking. My hand hovers over the handle, fingers brushing the cold metal. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against the wood, trying to force the fear out.
The phone vibrates again. Another message.
One chance. Open the door. Let me in, and I’ll make you feel something besides fear. Or don’t. But I promise if I have to break in, you’ll regret it.
My pulse races, and my mind spins, caught between dread and something darker—something I don’t want to name. I type back, fingers almost too numb to move.
If I open it, you’ll hurt me.
Three dots. Then his reply.
If I wanted to hurt you, I already would have. I don’t want to break you, Raven. I want to bend you. There’s a difference.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the wave of something that isn’t fear. I can’t let him win. I can’t give in.
If you open the door, I’ll touch you the way I’ve been imagining. I’ll make you admit you don’t hate this. That you don’t hate me. I’ll hear you say my name. Say it like you need it. Like you need me.
A flush crawls up my neck, heat pooling low in my stomach despite the fear clawing at my throat. I press my hand to my mouth, trying to silence the whimper that slips out.
My phone vibrates again. Another voice message. I hit play before I can think.
His voice, a murmur soaked in wicked promise:
“Imagine it, Little Spider. I’ll pin you to the bed, hands above your head, mouth on your throat, listening to you beg me to stop but knowing you don’t mean it. You’ll fight because you think you have to. But once I have you wrapped up in myhands, you’ll realise you don’t want to fight at all. You want to feel it. Want to be mine.”
I can’t stop the shudder that rips through me, body reacting against my will. My mind screams to run, to hide, but my legs feel like lead. I’m caught between the sick, addictive thrill and the terror that he’s right—that some part of me doesn’t want him to stop.
One more chance. Open the door, or I’ll make it happen on my terms. And trust me, you’d rather choose.
My hand trembles as I reach for the lock, fingers brushing over the metal. I pull away, shake my head, fight the urge.
“Tick tock, Little Spider. Make your choice.”
A loud bang on the door, and I jump, heart slamming into my ribs. My phone vibrates—another picture. I open it with a trembling hand.
It’s the door. My door. A black leather glove pressed flat against the wood, as if feeling for the pulse underneath.
I don’t realise I’m moving until I’m at the door, fingers fumbling with the lock. My breaths come out in shallow gasps, and I force myself to pause, to think.
But then another bang—harder, like a fist. My stomach twists, and I yank the lock back, pulling the door open.
No one.
Just the empty hallway, stretching into silence. I take a hesitant step forward, glance both ways, my heart thundering.
A whisper brushes past my ear, so close I can feel the heat of it.
“Good girl.”
I spin around, but the hallway is empty. My phone buzzes in my hand, and I look down. A new message.
I knew you’d let me in. You just don’t know how much yet.
My knees give out, and I sink to the floor, staring at the door, realising too late that I just let him win.
And now I know—he doesn’t have to break in.
